The prosthetic was made of wood and fitted with straps, buckles, and buttons that fastened to her thigh. It had the hard, cold feel of a tool or gardening implement clamped rudely on skin. But that was the least of her concerns. Shortly after the accident, Semah’s body was rocked by another growth spurt, and over the next year she grew to almost six feet in height. During this period, longer and longer prosthetics were needed. The new false legs were always a step behind her growth, so to speak. Her good leg was always longer than her mechanical one and forced her to walk with a pronounced limp.
On the brighter side, Sula’s maternal instincts yanked her out of the self-pitying fog in which she had been mired since catching Ibrahim in flagrante. The first thing she did was to promote a Hindu servant named Bharmini from water carrier to Semah’s “body woman.” Bharmini was Shudra—an unskilled labourer, one level above her Dalit inferiors. Sula had selected her not for her intelligence but for her brawn. A sturdy-looking young woman about Semah’s age, she had thick arms and wide shoulders. Lifting ewers weighing one hundred pounds every day for years had given her impressive arms and a powerful upper body. Sula wisely believed that her daughter, who was now a head taller than everyone, would need a sturdy body woman to catch her in case—Lessim Allah, G-d forbid—the false leg should collapse.
With Bharmini on one side and Sula on the other, Semah took her first tentative steps in her bedroom. The spacious room, denuded of excess furniture, provided a safe environment in which Semah could relearn what two-year-olds knew instinctively. She had to recalibrate the subtle weight shifts of every movement. With each effort she felt a tearing sensation where the scar of her stump chafed against the leather pocket in which it sat. “Stay with her,” Sula instructed.
Bharmini waggled her head and said in Hindi, “Yes, Memsahib.”
After days—no, weeks—of agony, strapping on the false limb and standing and tumbling to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Semah finally got the hang of it. Months passed before she was able to walk unassisted. Semah looked at her body servant and started to cry and laugh at the same time.
Ibrahim and Sula were thrilled with Semah’s progress and their own tortured journey toward reconciliation. Semah was the glue they had needed to cement their shattered relationship. The parents joined their daughter for meals that were taken in her bedroom during the recovery period. But now that Semah had renewed mobility, Sula suggested, without a hint of irony, “It is time we took meals in the dining room as before.”
The enigmatic words “as before” hovered over their heads. Before what? The riding accident? Or the other event?
It was almost sundown on the following Friday when Bharmini pinned up Semah’s hair for the first time. For years it had hung loose, in the fashion of most English girls; now the dark tresses were combed up and fastened to the top of her head in a more womanly style, revealing her ears and the smooth nape of her neck. Bharmini put some rouge on her young mistress’s cheeks and spread the colour to give her a healthier glow. Semah attached the prosthetic limb herself, as was her wont. She never allowed anyone to handle the limb. Bharmini turned her back to show respect for Memsahib’s privacy.
“I’m ready,” Semah said in Hindi. Bharmini opened the bedroom door for Semah, who stepped out for the first time in months and walked, without help, to the top of the stairwell. Fifty steps curved down to the foyer below.
“Mem-sah to take my hand please?”
“No,” Semah said.
She held the banister with one hand and moved her wooden foot forward to take the first step. Buttery-coloured beams from the west-facing windows flooded the place. Shabbat was approaching.
Below, the servants had come out to watch. Ibrahim and Sula stood like statues looking up expectantly—expecting what, Semah could not say.
“Slowly…” Sula called out. Ibrahim put up one hand to stop her from saying anything more.
“She knows, Sula. Just let her…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Their hearts pounded in unison.
Masters and servants held their breaths.
Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked loudly.
Tentatively and leaning heavily on the banister, Semah took one cautious step after another. Her wooden foot, hitting the marble stairs, sounded loudly against the silence like a stranger knocking at the door of an empty house. Finally, she reached the centre landing and breathed out. She looked at her parents and smiled.
Ibrahim held his wife’s hand. Semah’s eyes misted at the sight.
Filled with confidence, she proceeded down the next flight, this time with only one hand on the banister. Three steps from the bottom, the heel of the wooden foot caught the edge of a stair and buckled under. She lost her balance. Quickly her right hand reached up and joined the left. Everyone gasped. Bharmini looped her arms around Semah’s waist. Sula stepped forward but was held back by Ibrahim. Someone tittered. Bharmini cursed in Bengali between her teeth. Semah peeled Bharmini’s arms from around her waist, righted her leg, checked the strapping, and continued safely down to the bottom landing.
Ibrahim released Sula’s hand. She ran to her daughter and smothered the girl with kisses. The servants applauded. Ibrahim dismissed them with a wave and joined his wife and daughter. He wrapped his arms around both women and hugged them. There were enough tears to drown a city.
Wordlessly they walked arm in arm into the dining room. Sula took two candles from the sideboard and placed them on the dining table in front of a loaf and a cup of wine. She lit the candles just as the final rays of the sun died out. She placed a veil on her head and waved her hands over the little flames to welcome Shabbat. Then, covering her eyes, she intoned the blessing:
“Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam…”
Through the open door Bharmini’s angry voice could be heard scolding the titterer. Ibrahim looked up. Annoyed by the disturbance, he walked toward the dining-room door…
“Asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu…”
Then came a sharp slap and a yelp of pain before the doors closed gently on the outside world…
“L’had’lik neir shel Shabbat…”
The blessing was concluded. In unison, the family intoned “Omein” and sat down to Shabbat dinner.
Semah felt that the next words from anyone’s mouth would be a test of the glue’s effectiveness. Ibrahim breached the silence:
“I wish to announce a new dowry—at Shul.”
Mother and daughter looked at each other and then at Ibrahim. Sula spoke:
“I agree,” she said.
Ibrahim pointed his finger at the ceiling: “Fifteen thousand rupees!” he declared.
Sula gasped. “That is higher than mine!”
That night, Semah picked up her journal—the book of lacerated hearts—but did not open it. Instead she put it in her trunk on top of the folded map. She imagined that the brief exchange at dinner had mended the tears on every page and that every heart had been made whole.
Yet despite the return of peaceful coexistence (her parents walked arm in arm to Shul) and Ibrahim’s generosity, no suitors presented themselves that year or the next or the one after that. Huddled in whispered conversation, they feared that Semah would soon be considered—No, they dared not use the phrase that described unmarried women. How could they? There was still hope. Wasn’t there? But the child, the girl, the woman would be twenty next year! Something had to be done, and quickly.